But Deliver Us From Evil
by Novacaine Remix
Summary: What would have happened had Samara been able to grow as a child? What if she had been raped and abused by her father growing up? She'd believe herself to be full of evil, and kill people, of course.


27

Popping a small handful of extra strength Advil, I contemplated whether a different method of murder could have saved me from this sufferable headache. I could've gagged the woman, yes, but the agonized, and yet subliminally pleasured noises one makes in such a situation had always had an alluring effect on me. I cannot say it gave me any sort of sexual gratification, as one may expect, but it certainly brightened the mood beyond its already blinding high.

It was during a contemplative study of my psychologist's brain that I realized I have a problem. The blood caked to my cuticles seemed to map the twisted route I'd subconsciously chosen to become the woman I am now, though I couldn't remember the day I'd chosen to become a serial killer rather than a doctor, or ballerina. Surely the same feeling of despair my father felt when he questioned when he'd decided to become an alcoholic, rather than a good father.

I can still remember the faded look in his eyes, and the shallow gasp that escaped from cracked lips on the particular day.

My father was a lumberjack type of man, most often clad in nature scattered plaid jackets, and work boots splattered with the blood of the day's kill. I can still vividly remember the wicked smell that drifted from the stiff, animal carcass hanging in the basement of our two story house. Throughout my entire childhood I did all within my power to avoid going down the rickety wooden stairs to face the accusing eyes of the dead, unless it was deemed my duty to empty the bucket thoughtfully set out to catch the blood from the slashed body.

On the most prominent day I continue to grasp within my memory my father had sent his tired wife on her daily alcohol run to the local convenience earlier than he normally would. It was years later when I finally realized that the seemingly misunderstood colourful beverages locked at the back of the store were the cause for my father's anger and my mother's obedient state.

He was already drunk when I came home from school; spread-eagle across the stained La-Z-Boy he had dubbed his own, genitals lewdly visible through the holes in his underwear.

My father raped me that day. He stole away the one thing I held to be my own as a child; my innocence, without as much as a second thought.

At the time I didn't understand what he was doing, or why he was doing it, but for years after I'd always believed it was a form of punishment for something I'd wrongfully done or said.

Once he'd finished I was cast aside as he would an empty liquor bottle, and he staggered to the kitchen to fetch another. The look he cast over his shoulder just then was enough of a confession. He'd discovered the recently fully stocked fridge to only now be full of empty bottles, and it was then that he knew what he'd done. He'd not only fucked up his own life, but that of a child as well.

The following day he declared himself to be a _new man_, and went on a cleaning rampage around the house, pouring any remaining drops of liquor down the kitchen sink and then delivered the empty bottles by the armful to the local dump.

A week later he tried coke.

And now I finally understood the sudden sluggish moods that seemed to plague his consciousness, and the sunken eyed expression I'd catch him passing me at all times of the day.

The apple never falls far from the tree.

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I was fourteen when I'd committed my first murder. I'd taken a young boy, ironically named Adam, to skate on a secluded pond, and though it was locally well known I knew we'd be alone. A new rink had recently opened across town, and all would be flocking to test the new, glass smooth ice.

Playing it safe, I'd spent the first portion of our allotted outside time attempting to teach the young boy various tricks I'd learnt over the years, but once I grew tired of this fruitless task, and annoyed with his pitiful antics to impress me, I knew it was time.

Being new, Adam didn't know that the ice on the far edge of the pond didn't freeze; another locally well known fact, and although many don't know why, some have connected it to an underground spring.

Being as competitive as most males are deemed to be, he eagerly agreed to race me to the other end of the pond; the prize? An autographed Shaquille O'Neil poster that he surely knew as well as I didn't exist.

Taking our positions at the safe end of the ice, I could almost feel the anticipation of the oncoming thrill pulsing through my cold body.

"3… 2… 1… Go!"

Clever as I was, I allowed Adam to skate far ahead of me, and called his name a few times as he neared the thin ice so that if he _did_ survive, I couldn't be blamed for not trying to warn him.

Skidding expertly to a stop near the center of the pond, I bent my knees and watched him with deep interest; I could hear the ice subtly cracking before he disappeared into the black water with a strange sloshing noise. The darkness seemed to engulf him, and for a moment I thought him to be already dead; how not fun. But then his head broke the surface and his arms flailed wildly as he tried to pull himself onto the ice that only broke away under his weight.

He didn't need to call my name for help; my expression of pure glee was surely enough to tell him that it would be a fruitless task to call out.

After he'd stopped kicking and floated face down amongst the shattered flakes of ice, I kicked around the nearby woods to find a broken tree branch, and placed it conspicuously near the hole in the ice so to seem I'd tried to help pull him out of the water.

Needless to say his family didn't long consider the town such a safe place to raise their remaining children, and moved back to the city they'd previously escaped in fear of crime and violence not long after the funeral.

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"You're sick."

I snorted and quirked a thin eyebrow. "If only you knew, babe."

"No, I'm serious." He swatted my hand away from his face. "I can't believe you want to stay home and write your stupid novel more than you want to hang out with me." His thin arms flexed and crossed over his chest.

Micah. He was the first person I met when I'd moved to the city; I can still remember my first reaction: Faggot.

Years ago he'd given up trying to hide who he was, although he'd never been very good at hiding it in the first place, and spent a great deal of his time at gay clubs and fucking his weekly array of boyfriends in cramped cars, when not working at a local lingerie store.

Micah was quite a favourite amongst the other gays, always flaunting his sexuality in the stereotypical ways; tight jeans, scarves, lip gloss and nail polish, and was known to have a new _fag hag_ attached to his hip every week. Which is why I could never understand why, after nearly two years, he still kept me around.

"C'mon, Samara, puh-leeasseee!" He pushed his strawberry glossed lips into a pout, tugging my arm as pitifully as a dog clawing its owner's foot as a hint to be let outside. "I'll introduce you to aaalll my homies!" Swatting my arm playfully, he turned and neatly began to straighten another line of white powder with one of his many maxed out credit cards.

I coughed to drown out the familiar noise of him snorting the line of cocaine; his habit tweaked finely drawn strings of memories I'd long tried to block out.

"Micah," I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, prepared to lecture him on respecting my space, but he cut me off before I could finish:

"No, Samara! I won't let you…" He trailed off, rubbing his fingers around his nostrils, clearing away any incriminating evidence of his habit. "I won't let you just sit on your cute little butt and not get out meeting people. You need more friends!" Again he swatted my leg. "I'm afraid I won't be around forever as a shoulder to cry on. I'll probably die of aids or something funny like that." He giggled, not mentioning his looming coke addiction.

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After much deliberation I gave in to his requests, whether to take his advice and try to make new friends, or just to shut him up, he didn't seem to care.

Excited that he had an escort to the club, Micah delved through the colorless clothes filling my walk in closet; most were suits and formal wear, a necessity when it comes to working in the funeral business, but he somehow managed to find a pair of low cut pants and button up blouse that I'd long ago buried in the back. The pants were suddenly a lot lower than I remembered them and the blouse fairly see-through and tighter around my chest.

"Great!" Micah stood behind me in the mirror, shamelessly readjusting my breasts. "Now, just a little make-up, some heels, and we're ready to go!"

After an hour of primping and dedicated decision making, I walked arm in arm with the strutting man past the bouncer who waved us through as regulars, and into the familiar club.

Even from the sidewalk outside the music could be heard, but once inside it, along with the moist heat, completely enveloped you. Colourful lights danced shadows across the walls, and the rolling mass of bodies seemed to pulse to the music. Many familiar with the scene didn't bother to talk, but rather met strangers on the dance floor by grinding them from behind, although some huddled around the neon lit bar and velvet booths trying to make conversation.

I couldn't recognize the song being played beneath the remixed beat, but it took no time to find a familiar beat to dance to amongst the sea of sweaty bodies.

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"Y'know, you're very pretty." The woman cooed in my ear while pressing her breasts against my shoulder. I would normally push the common club whore away, but at this point I was far too intoxicated to even think of it.

Grinning dumbly, "Thanks, you're are too." An unfamiliar giggle escaped my glossed lips at the slurred grammatical error.

"Y'wanna come back to my room?" Her hand was dangerously close to sliding under the fabric of my shirt, for now just stroking the skin softly. The question was enough to sober me up, even though if only by a tiny fraction; should I go? I knew the obvious reasons that could turn me on to actually going; she would be an easy target, but would I be sober enough to take care of her? Micah had already left me over an hour ago, disappearing behind a new pretty boy into a back room allotted for any sexual activities not appropriate for the main area of the club.

"Lead the way, m'lady." I tossed back a final shot of vodka, slapped a couple of bills onto the counter, and followed her swiveling hips through the pulsing bodies.

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Once outside the cold air and deep drags on a cigarette were enough to sober me slightly more, and I could acknowledge what I was doing. It had been a good long while since my last kill; a couple of weeks or so, perhaps it was time for another? The woman was hardly worth the life she lived; I could tell from her clothes, hair and make-up that she didn't live a poor life style, but despite our years of dwelling in the same city I'd never seen her do anything but prostitute herself off at clubs. Yes, she would be a perfect candidate.

Blowing clouded smoke from my nose, a mixture of nicotine and moist air, I obediently followed her lead down the empty streets. Quickly finishing the cigarette, I stomped it out on the sidewalk so to avoid having it still lit at her place; didn't need her deciding she didn't want me around and run off to find another play thing.

Her heels crackled the dead leaves overflowing from sewer drains and lining the sidewalks, and I buried myself in thoughts of their overrated colours; before I knew it she was unlocking the door to an expensive loft on the North side of town, and tugging me inside.

I hadn't heard the door click shut behind us before I was sandwiched between the cool wood and her hot body; her lips against my mouth and her tongue down my throat tasted of expensive lipstick, a wide array of alcohols, and the mouths of so many others.

Her hands were surprisingly cold under my clothes, but the blankets on her bed soon tangled around our bodies warmed us where physical contact and friction could not.

When she'd finished her fun with my body as her toy and lie asleep sprawled over most of the bed, I contemplated my first move. I feared that to climb off the bed would only awaken her, but had no instruments of grace within reach; so I chose my most primary of weapons; my hands.

Wrapping long, calloused fingers around her slender neck, I took time to soak her body heat and strength, and to feel the steady heartbeat below the skin before steadily tightening my grip.

At first she didn't wake, but did with a start when the pressure was enough to sever her air supply; her eyes shot open and her arms immediately began to grapple my arms and face, trying to free herself from my grip.

I'd grown accustomed to my victims fighting back but had long learnt to ignore it; don't let them get in the way of the inevitable; this had to be done for both my own and their salvation.

When the red blossoming on her pretty face had shaded to a deep purple, contrasting with the blank stare of her eyes, I carefully folded her arms over her chest and said a prayer for her salvation.

I can't remember the time when I first considered killing to be a way to cleanse myself in the end, of all the evil that I'd been born with, and have collected myself over the years. As I steadily cleared the worthless and unnecessary from the world, I was helping society as a whole, giving them into God's loving ways; then, and only then, could I be truly free from the darkness I'd been born with. Even the punishment I'd received as a child dealt from the hands of my father wasn't enough. No, even now I had to continue to an all knew high of experience, all to strengthen the salvation I would one day receive.

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In the beginning it had been far too much pressure to bare; I didn't think it mattered whether I was forgiven and accepted into a proper afterlife, and contemplated suicide.

After surviving a potentially fatal traffic accident I realized that my time on Earth wasn't finished; no, not yet; I still had work to do.

2

"Y'know, I hadn't ever _planned_ to kill people. It just happened one day; well, I guess I shouldn't say that. I'd suffered with a coke addiction for several years, and it took a full three month binge of drugs and alcohol to come to the conclusion that I'd done enough damage to myself, body and soul, that I had a valid decision to make. I could either give up living this pathetic definition of a life, or give up everything I held close and start anew. After much deliberation, and a failed attempt at the first, I chose the second; I couldn't have done it without the help of a man I'd met over the internet. He had a theory that everything we do is done for a reason; even the sins we commit have a reason for being, and they aren't necessarily a bad thing that we should avoid doing. By sinning we are filling ourselves with more that needs to be cleansed, and with our death we will be cleansed to a whole new level of gratification, and the more we can achieve, the better the afterlife will be.

"At first I thought this was a completely ludicrous theory; it made no sense, how are we able to be cleansed with death? Shouldn't we take our sins with us to the afterlife? He helped me realize that I was wrong, very wrong. Not only did I have a shallow view on life as I knew it, believing that I lived simply to _live_, and to make it through another day, but everything I did created a ripple effect on the world all around me. By sinning I was creating the chance for many around me to be cleansed," I ignored that familiar, dumbfounded look she gave me, and continued. "And in the end, if I give myself to the sins of others, I would be cleansed for my sacrifice. And the deeper and more gratifying the cleansing is… the better an afterlife I will be able to dwell within."

A heavy silence fell in the room until the suit clad woman on the other side of the table shifted in her seat, and it croaked in protest.

"Samara…" She clutched her ballpoint pen in one hand, and a fresh coil notepad in the other. "Do you actually believe all of this? Or is it all just a theory you've created for the character Amadis?" She poised her pen, prepared to note my response.

"Well," I thought for a moment, shuffling and reshuffling my handful of crumpled papers. "I don't know; I mean, I guess it all makes sense to me… but… guess I don't believe it." I lied, but my answer seemed to please her, as she wrote it down with an agreeing nod.

"You just came up with the theory for your story?"

"Yes." I said.

"Well, you have a very interesting story going on there… Perhaps you could leave it with me to reread myself?"

"I'd rather not."

"What if I photocopy it so you don't have to leave your copy here?" She suggested hopefully.

"No."

"Oh… well," She tapped the pen rhythmically on the paper. "How abou—"

"I have to go." Shoving the worn papers into an equally tattered backpack, I stood and eagerly left the room. The long hallway to the elevators seemed to grow longer the further I walked, but once I'd passed through the safety locked door, and the waiting room of other patients looking no more or less depressed than me, I felt I was safe. No more questions, and no more curiosity; why had I gone to another psychologist in the first place? Did I really think that she could help me on my quest, or was I just trying to make myself feel better with the thought that maybe she would agree with the theory… Perhaps if I'd admitted that it wasn't just something I'd created for my story, but something I bound my life to, she would have had more positive to say. Yes, that must be it!

Boarding the empty elevator with a confident smile and graceful step, I steered for the ground floor with the knowledge that I'd accomplished something today, even though it was something minor; I'd sent out word of what I do and how I live my life, even if she should believe it to be nothing but fiction.

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"We all come here today to say good-bye to our dearly departed; Vincent Macleod, who although may have been commonly mistaken for a bitter and shallow man, deserves a part in all of our hearts. Throughout his life he accomplished many things, and through a diary found by his bed, we are able to learn, for the first time, just all that he did." An old man with a handlebar moustache held up a book bound in leather for all to see. "Over the years many mysterious things have happened; children who had lost their bikes have awoken to find a new one outside their bedroom windows; a family whose belongings were destroyed in a fire have been given anonymous donations of money, clothes and food." Many in the audience nodded and leaned close to one another, whispering of memories the minister had refined in their minds. "For years many believed it all to be the miraculous work of a higher power, but with Vincent's death we have been able to learn the truth about this shy old man; he wasn't the solemn, lone man many accused him of being, but really just a stranger who did his good deeds from afar. Thank you, Vincent Macleod." Everyone lowered their heads in unison to pray.

Watching from the back, I nodded in agreement, happy with the knowledge that by killing the man I'd done good for him; because of me his story was told. Had he have died of natural causes River Side Funeral Home would be empty today, but instead was filled to the brim with families who had experienced his good deeds, and even those who hadn't but had caught wind of his story.

"People really eat this shit up, huh?" Despite the voice was familiar, I was caught by surprised and shot a hand out defensively. My unsuspecting victim swore quietly, clutching his nose, testing for broken bones or blood.

"Sorry. You scared me."

"I was gonna say; you always beat up the guys you like?" Deciding his nose was left unharmed, he straightened one of the two hoops pierced through his nostrils and grinned cheekily. I hadn't known the kid for very long, but have liked him from the start; from the day he'd climbed the front stairs to this familiar stone building with a confident air, to the days he'd "forgotten" to come to work, or spilt formaldehyde on the floor.

"Yeah, right." I rolled my eyes, but chuckled inwardly.

"So," He gazed around to make sure we weren't interrupting anyone attending the funeral service. "Y'wanna go out for lunch later on?" He smiled hopefully.

"Cute, Marcus." I slapped a funeral service pamphlet against his chest. "You know I have _two_ more bodies to finish up."

"Oh, c'mon! What about after you're done? It can't take _that_ long to do two bodies. Hell, just stick 'em in the fridge and finish 'em tonight!" Several of the elder women in the back pews of the main hall turned around, taken back by his suggestion.

I only laughed, waving over my shoulder as I made way to the basement.

Just two months after I began my apprenticeship at the River Side Funeral Home I was hired as a full-time worker, and given the duty of being the official embalmer on staff. After the original owner of the Home, Mr. Jacobson, passed away and left the business to his sons, no one was particularly fond of the embalming process, and so there was no question of leaving the fun to me when learning it was a favourite past time of mine.

"I just watched too much CSI; Crime Scene Investigation while growing up; I'm immune to the sight of bodies_."_

Right where I'd left her before my coffee break, the young Maggie Patterson lay still, silent and blue on the stainless steel table, eyes staring blankly to the ceiling and hair tousled with leaves and branches. After delicately removing the debris, I stripped her of her clothes and tucked them away to be washed and returned to her family, then began the familiar process of washing her down with a disinfectant solution. The smell of the countless chemicals locked away in the room, and Maggie's slowly decaying body would have been enough to send even the strongest men vomiting in their hands, but I'd long grown accustomed to it, and found the smell comforting. The smell of death in this room was mixed with the knowledge that the body was being taken care of, rather than slashed open and eaten like the animal's I'd faced as a child.

Once Maggie's body was clean and dry, I wired her mouth shut and arranged it carefully into a comfortable and natural position, then spent a fair bit of time; nine rounds of Für Elise at 3:18 each to be exact, massaging the rigor mortis from her muscles and limbs.

Subconsciously moving to the beat of my next song of choice, a techno remix of Für Elise, I made two incisions on the right side of her lower neck, and placed a tube connected to the embalming fluid pump into the carotid artery, and another _drain tube_ to the jugular vein. While expertly keeping an eye on the mixture of fluid being pumped through her body, I flipped through the new book I'd found discarded on the lobby windowsill of my apartment building. Although the back cover told a story of a young woman, confused and lost, who meets a new guy and ends up falling in love with him, only to find out he's a serial killer, the book turned out to be no interest of mine when I found it more a documentary and lecture of how to keep safe.

Once the body could be deemed thoroughly disinfected and clean, and I'd discarded the chemical laced blood, I made a small incision above her naval, which was scarred with the remains of an old piercing, and inserted a needle to clean out both the abdominal and thoracic cavities.

I sutured closed all incisions and then washed her body again, with cold water and another disinfectant soap mixed with bleach.

Humming along next to a techno remix of Beethoven's infamous Moonlight Sonata, I applied more chemicals to remove scaling on her hands and face, and dressed her in a set of clothes provided by her family. Carefully matching colours with her dulled skin tone and the clothes she wore, I applied make-up to make Maggie seem more life-like to her family at the open casket service, and did her nail and nails, then left her ready for the casket.

Switching CDs to a new death metal mix I'd put together the night before, I began the process all over again with the next body; Maggie's brother, Mitchell.

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"You stink." Although his words were muffled incoherently by a mouthful of half chewed steak, I could tell what he said; it was the same thing he said every other night we went out after I'd been embalming.

"Yeah, well, you're not too crispy clean smelling either." I responded with a mouthful of Caesar salad. Marcus had arrived at the restaurant with three new and unanticipated facial piercings, and smelt heavily of mouthwash and the disinfectant gel commonly used at piercing and tattoo shops. He snorted and a small bit of meat sauce trickled down his chin; he blushed and wiped it away with the back of his tattooed hand.

"So…" He took a sip of the beer he'd ordered to accompany his meal. "I was thinking we could go to an opera this weekend. There's a new show coming to that… place downtown, and it's a bit of a romantic/violent love story made opera-y."

I'd been working daily with the man for over six months, and spent more time with him outside of work than anyone else, except maybe my cat and Micah, but I was still always learning new things about him.

"So what d'you think?" He tapped my hand, and I realized I'd spaced out, staring blankly at my plate of uneaten food.

"Oh, sorry." I smiled, reaching for my glass of wine. "Sounds like a good plan."

His face brightened with a broad smile, and he happily returned to eating his steak.

"Can I come over tonight?" He didn't look up from his food.

"Marcus, I don't think that's a good idea." I thought back to the headless woman left in my broom closet.

"Aw, why not, baby?" He was pouting, but the multiple hoops donning his lips removed any sense of cuteness that would generally accompany this gesture.

"I'm PMSing."

"Oh."

Once returning home, I made a quick disposal of the headless woman by dumping her over a nearby bridge that led directly out to the ocean, knowing that by time her body was found it would be either too decomposed and bloated by the water to be recognized, and/or any evidence of her captor would be long destroyed by the currents.

Returning home for the second time that night, I shed my daily clothes and donned a more comfortable set of pajamas, then settled down on the couch for a night of watching TV. The TV was already set to a 24-hour News station; a heavy set woman filled the screen, tears rolling down her massive cheeks as she sobbed incoherently, subtitles scrolling the bottom doing their best to translate what she said.

"I—If anyone knows where to find my daughter, please, please, _please_ call your local police department. Please help me find my child."

A picture of a beautiful blonde woman filled the screen, and the broadcaster began listing facts of her physical features, and where she had last been seen.

The woman bound and bleeding in a bag on the couch beside me started wiggling around and crying against her material gag.

"Yes! That _is _you! Very good!" I cooed, pushing down the opening of the bag to get a better look at her emerging face. She squeezed blue, bloodshot eyes closed, frustrated by my seemingly incompetent personality. I laughed, "Blue eyes and blonde hair; Hitler would have liked you."

She grunted and rolled off the couch, naked body spilling from the plastic bag.

"No, you're going to get blood on my new rug!"

"Official authorities have stated that they are _doing everything within their power_ to find Nichol, the missing woman. Nichol is presumably the 16th victim of what State authorities are calling the _worst string of murders this city has witness in years._ I'm Tim Dobson with WD15 News. Coming up next, your local and international weather forecasts."

Turning my attention away from the TV again, I eyed the young woman, who stared at me with eyes as wide as a deer facing traffic.

"Nichol, hm? That's a very lovely name; but everyone is looking for you!" I said, pressing my palms against my knees and leaning down, closer to her on the floor. "I guess that means I should probably take care of you before you get the chance to sneak away and tell people about _us_." I pointed a finger at her, then myself, and nodded.

Once I'd properly prepared her body for disposal, I licked my fingers deliciously and eyed the scene before me; Nichol still remained on the floor in her plastic bag, but had been beaten into a bloody, pulpy mass of muscle and organs, and sprinkled with shreds of bone.

"Wonderful." I fetched a glass salt shaker from the kitchen and sprinkled some over the mess, then laughed, and waved a finger at the motionless pile of sludge. "I'm just jokin', I'd never eat you."

She didn't seem to find it very funny.

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I hadn't been asleep for very long when I was woken by the sound of the front door clicking shut. Sitting up slowly, I held my breath and listened for more sounds of an intruder; everything was silent, except for the familiar sounds of the city drifting through an open window over my head. On the floor just under my bed I kept an old baseball bat for situations like this; it had several nails sticking through the tip of it, though they had been nailed through as a joke one Halloween years ago. When I was moving out of my parent's house and into my own apartment, I had found the bat in the attic, and dubbed it a proper weapon.

Wrapping my fingers around the familiar wooden handle, I silently slipped out from under the blankets and inched towards the closed door. Or… at least it had been closed when I went to bed. Positioning myself against the wall just left of the door, I waited; before I could react to the sound of shuffling feet, the overhead light clicked on and I was momentarily blinded by the white light.

Without waiting for my eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness, I lunged forward, swinging the bat out in front of me.

"What the hell!" I froze, but kept the bat positioned out defensively. "Samara?"

Waiting for my eyes to fully adjust, the blurred shapes incoherently dancing in front of my eyes straightened together and formed a familiar face.

"Marcus!" I lowered the bat to my side, clutching a hand over my chest to emphasize my surprise. "What are you doing here? I thought someone was breaking in!"

The gangly boy laughed, body rocking forward as he clutched his stomach painfully. "Jesus!" He managed to get out between labored breathing. "I thought you were going to kill me!"

I chuckled, replacing the bat to its trusty spot under my bed. "I almost did."

This wasn't the first time Marcus had snuck into my apartment late at night, though after the last time when he'd come in to find me masturbating to a Rob Zombie music video, depicting the bearded man imitating the infamous Alex character of Clockwork Orange, I hadn't expected him to surprise me again. Although neither of us had mentioned that incident again, whenever a Rob Zombie song came on the radio, or on a CD we listened to, he'd give me a suggestive wink.

When I finally made it back to bed, after an hour of watching TV and chatting with Marcus, he climbed under the blankets beside me, but rather than impose himself upon me, he simply cuddled close and dozed off almost immediately. Good thing I'd taken care of Nichol.

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"Wake up, sunshine." I cracked an eye open; Marcus's face was hovering close over mine.

"Noo." I grumbled incoherently, fumbling around for a blanket to pull over my face, but he had expected that and pulled them all away.

Trying again, he cooed; "Good morning, starshine! The earth says _hello_!" I had to laugh at his pitiful imitation of one of Johnny Depp's many colourful characters.

"Wooah! Hello morning breath, stinky much?" He laughed, waving a hand in front of his face and rolled off me, onto the floor where he less then gracefully caught himself and jumped to his feet.

After a long shower I joined Marcus in the kitchen, where he sat with an overflowing bowl of Rice Krispies doused in sugar, and a week old paper. Pouring a bowl of the musical cereal for myself, I joined him at the table and happily basked in his presence.

"So," He tilted the bowl up to drink the remaining milk and the soggy cereal still floating in it. "I was thinkin' we could go out and roam the city today; wander the streets and window shop; that kinda thing, y'know?"

"Anywhere in particular you wanted to go?"

"No," He shook his head, disposing of his bowl and spoon in the sink. "I was just thinking we could get out and about; have some _us_ time, y'know?"

"I'd love to go." His face perked up with a smile almost immediately.

Within little time we'd donned regular, common day clothing and began our journey. His car was a real _junker_, but whenever said fact was pointed out, he'd shrug and declare that it fit his personality; **_de_**me_**nted**. _

"Dented… de_me_nted? Get it?" It had been a cute joke in the beginning, but lately, more often than not, I quickly gave the punch line for him and changed the subject.

Neither of us spoke the short drive downtown; he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel and bobbed his head to the beat of whatever Gothic band he'd discovered this week. The world outside the car seemed to browse by slowly as Marcus steered through lanes of traffic and cut yellow lights. I'd long given up trying to persuade him into driving slower, and stick to his allotted lane. Now I just made sure to properly wear my seat belt and hold on.

"We're here!" He declared as pulling into the only free parking spot in the lot, stealing it from another oncoming car.

"And we're alive!" I added sarcastically, grabbing my bag and climbing out. The car door creaked in protest when it swung shut, and I watched Marcus over the car roof.

"Oh, c'mon babe, I'm not _that_ bad of a driver; I mean… have I ever been in an accident?" He paused for a moment, and then shook his head, exaggeratedly cooing; "Nooo!"

I jokingly raised a particular finger in his direction, and swung my bag over my shoulder. "Let's get going."

Joining me by my side, he entwined his fingers with my own and led the way to his favourite strip of stores.

"What'd'you think?" Marcus burst out from behind a tall rack of black clothing, holding a mask to his face.

"Oh, the wrinkles and bushy eyebrows are certainly an improvement, but the huge nose and warts are no different." I laughed, catching the mask when he threw it against my chest and disappeared again to find an improved disguise.

Wandering across the wide store, I paused to browse a bin of loose odds & ends. I'd never understood Marcus's infatuation with the store; the Monkey Bazooka. They didn't ever seem to carry the same thing one week as they did the week before, or even the week after; everything was so mismatched and had always reminded me of the kind of mess you'd find after a tornado tore through an entire strip mall, and dumped all the stores together as one.

An antique looking toy monkey caught my eye; it held a cymbal in each hand, and danced when I screwed the pin in its back.

"What'cha got?" Marcus jumped me from behind, this time wearing a hat embroidered with the American flag and a reaper cape.

I held it up for him to see; it danced in my palm, and he clapped his hands excitedly. I laughed, "You're such a kid."

"But you love me anyways, ne?" He ran a hand through my hair and lightly kissed the back of my neck. A chill slid down my spine, and I turned in his arms to face him.

"Of course I do," I gave an assuring nod. "Even though you _are _smelly, and don't clean up after yourself."

"Hey!" He cried defensively, "You're smelly too. Besides, I'm a guy, I'm allowed to stink!"

"Oh really?" I laughed. "How did I miss _that_ on the contract?" I ducked a slap aimed for my shoulder.

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Safely leaving the store before Marcus could break anything; we stopped briefly at a coffee shop and then continued wandering around the lower city until dusk, when he led the way back to his car.

It was, as expected, where we'd left it and in the same _heap of shit_ state, though Marcus exaggeratedly screamed and pointed to one of the many dents camouflaging the car.

"Someone dented my car! _My_ fuckin' car! Do they know who I am?" He puffed his chest out, but a round of wheezing coughs overpowered him and he obediently climbed into the car, defeated.

"I don't think there's room for any more dents on this thing." I claimed my usual spot in the passenger seat, half-expecting the car door to fall off when I slammed it shut.

"Hah, yeah…" He nodded sadly, petting the dashboard affectionately. "She's a beaut." Starting the engine, he flicked through the stations until he needed both hands to back out of the spot, and the radio was left on a news station.

"… although authorities are investigating the lead now, no news of evidence has been shared with the public, and no suspects have been brought in to custody." The woman's voice battled over the radio's static. "I'm Nancy Chang coming from you at the North Way River, where hundreds of the local public have been gathered throughout the day, lighting candles and leaving flowers for the lost women."

"Thank you, Nancy. Well, it certainly is a sad story; if you have any news on the missing women, particularly the most recently abducted, Nichol Porter, please contact your local authorities. And now on to the local weather forecast for the upcoming long weekend…"

Marcus clicked the radio off, shaking his head sadly. "Can you believe that? I mean, what is it; like, 16 women who have gone missing? Crazy." He trailed off, murmuring to himself.

"Yeah," I shifted uncomfortably, rolling down my window. "It's getting pretty… intense."

"It is! I don't know what I'd do if some crazy ran off with you." He reached over and squeezed my thigh to emphasize his point.

I smiled knowingly. "I don't think you have to worry about that happening." I watched the night life pass by the car, cool wind hitting my face.

"We can only hope, right? But I guess you never know."

The car fell to silence again, until Marcus eagerly filled it with music.

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When we returned to my apartment complex, Marcus seemed to hesitate before parking in the lot and turning the engine off. "Y'want me to stay again tonight?"

I opened my door, but didn't climb out. "Well, you might as well; I mean… some of your things are still upstairs." He seemed to like the response, and followed me inside as eagerly as a lost puppy.

After I put away the few things I'd bought, and changed into a pair of pajamas, Marcus joined me on the couch and we settled down for a night of watching movies. He had chosen Evil Dead, declaring that I would love it and that it would scare the living daylights out of me. Although he'd claimed it never scared him, he spent the entire length of the movie nibbling his fingernails.

At some point I had drifted to sleep, and didn't wake again until the movie was over and Marcus was hopping up and down excitedly. "Wasn't it good? It's such a good movie!"

He climbed across the couch to settle on top of me, but I easily pushed him off and onto the floor. He landed with a thump, and started calling out threats in a mock mafia tone, but then suddenly fell silent.

"Marcus?" I peered over the edge of the couch. He was pressed close to the floor with one arm reaching far beneath the couch. "What are you do—"

"Samara," He slowly sat up, holding something in his hand. "What's this?" He spread his fingers to reveal a dusty finger sitting lone on his palm.

3

"Marcus; I can expla—"

"Oh, I get it! This is one of those model limbs from that new prosthetics store downtown, right? They were selling all kinds of this shit around Halloween." Trying to imitate a zombie, he balanced the finger between his lips and thrust his arms straight out in front of him. Bumbling around the room and making stereotypical "zombie" groaning noises, he ignored my feverish protests, deciding I was only trying to take his fun away. He ran and hopped up with surprising grace, landing balanced atop the sturdy table in the corner of the room. Sending a handful of papers and various writing utensils fluttering to the floor, he stood and cocked his hips forward, dramatically pointing a finger towards the ceiling.

"_I_… am the great Zombie man!" Trying to emphasize his point, he reached up and held onto one end of the finger and bit down into the other. Everything seemed to slow down around us as he pulled one part of the finger away, the other, disconnected at the joint, still on his tongue. Looking at the finger in his hand, he opened his mouth as though to comment on how realistic the prop was; then realization hit him. His face dropped and his tongue wagged forward, dropping both ends of the finger to the floor.

"Hoshit!" He frantically scrapped his nails down the length of his tongue as if trying to clean it of any residue, while his face contorted in an expression of utter disgust. Jumping down from the table, he backed a safe distance away and pointed at the two nubs. "What the fuck is _that_?"

I opened my mouth to explain, but before I could speak he interrupted; "It's a finger! T—That's a finger!" He snuck closer, and then jumped back away to his original, defensive position.

Just then the TV flicked on, and if as a sign from a higher power, settled on the familiar 24-hour News station.

"Yes Diane, this _is_ great news! In case you're just joining us now, the body of missing woman Nichol Porter has been found. Although she was dead upon discovery, several fibers have been found on her body and are believed to have been transferred by her captor. All along the waterbed friends, family and the general public are gathering with far more candles and flowers than previously; all praying that with this new evidence, the police will be able to put an end to this vicious string of attacks."

The screen faded to a scene at the bridge; the camera panned across the gathering crowd, and stopped on _Diane_, clutching her microphone against the harsh winds carried by the water.

"Most certainly, John; all around me people pray for the murderer to be caught…" She paused, reaching up to adjust the plug in her left ear. "I'm getting news now that it has been confirmed Nichol's death was committed by the same man who attacked the other women; the M.O., the removal of the first three fingers on each hand, is the same."

"Shit." I was brought back to reality when Marcus swore loudly behind me. "It was _you_ all along?"

I tried to explain but he cut me off with another string of curses. "All this time! It was you!" He began to pace the length of the room, tugging on handfuls of his jet black hair. "I can't believe it; this is insane, it can't be true. The killer was here and tried to attack you, but you got away! A—And he had the finger on him from a previous murder; yes, that's it!" He turned his attention to me and smiled; hopeful I would nod in agreement and tell him a great tale of how I'd barely escaped the killer's attack.

I shook my head. "No, Marcus. You were right the first time, I a—"

"No!" He covered his ears. "If you don't tell me, I can pretend I didn't ever know anything, and leave! Yes." He turned and quickly walked to the door, grabbing his jacket on the way by.

As he opened the door, I quick stepped behind him and closed it. He tried to open it again, but again I closed it before he could duck out.

"Marcus; no."

"Samara, I—I have to go… clean my place; really! My parents are coming around tomorrow, and it's really messy, and I need to clean it!" He tried to get out again.

"You're going to tell on me."

"No I won't, I swear!" He waved his hands around in denial. "I won't tell anyone."

"If you don't tell anyone, you'll be lying… and that's a sin, y'know?"

"What? Since when are you a churchie?" He seemed to be trying to distract me with conversation.

"Marcus," I paused, nibbling on my bottom lip thoughtfully. "I can't let you sin for me."

"Oh, I've already sinned enough in my life that this won't make a difference." Marcus laughed nervously, sneaking his way along the wall, away from me and the door.

"You've used the Lord's name in vain, and try to partake in premarital sex, a—"

"Woah!" He raised his hands in defense. "Those're things that everyone do; you shouldn't take the bible so literally."

"You've sinned, and for that reason I must deliver you to salvation."

"Deliver me?"

I pulled a kitchen blade from behind my back and stepped closer. "Where the hell did you get that?" He shoved past me and ran down the hall, closing himself in the bathroom.

"Marcus, Marcus, Marcus…" I cooed, casually following his path down the hall. "You _do_ realize the lock is broken; I can get in."

"I'm stronger than you! I'll keep you out." His voice was muffled through the wall, but I still understood, and could hear the beeping of his cell phone. "And I'm calling the cops!"

"I'll tell them you were an accomplice, and a part of the murders all along." I called softly, leaning close to the door, listening to the inside sounds and carefully dragging my blade over the painted wood.

"But that would be a lie! And you said it yourself; to lie is to sin." The evident trembling in his voice was enough of a sign that he was hesitating; this was my chance. I _had_ to do this; Marcus isn't the kind of person to seek his own redemption, and I love him too much to allow him to simply fall after death.

"Yes, please! You have to help me." So he really _had _called for help. "I—I'm trapped in an apartment with the woman who killed Nichol Porter and the others… Yes, a woman!... Okay, uhm… 780 Montcarmory Street, apartment 103… yes, please hurry… okay."

Only assuming his conversation would be enough to distract him, I silently turned the knob on the door, and then paused to see if he had heard. He didn't seem to have, and I couldn't feel any pressure of him trying to turn the knob back into its closed position. Using the element of surprise, I thrust all of my body weight against the door. Having been leaning back against it, when the door swung open Marcus was sent toppling forward, landing face first in the porcelain tub just a few steps away. Before he could catch himself, I jumped into the tub after him, pinning his hands above his head, inhibiting an escape.

"Samara, you _have_ to let me go." He pleaded. "I've never done any bad to you; I love you! Just let me go and you'll never hear from me again."

"Marcus," I closed my eyes. "Please, there's no point in trying to persuade me; I've been doing this for years… I'm used to the pitiful begging."

Realizing the loving approach wouldn't save him; he donned an angry expression and ground his teeth. "Look; it doesn't matter what happens now, you're going to be caught. So why bother killing me? It won't change anything!"

"Oh, you're quite mistaken; without me you will burn in hell."

He laughed loudly. "And you won't? Murder is a sin!" He spat, wrenching one of his hands from my grasp and curled his fingers into a fist. Expecting the punch, I tilted my head just enough for him to miss his target; my face, and he hit the side of my head. Mocking his use of a sudden attack, I swung the blade and gracefully buried it to the hilt between his ribs, ignoring the new, steady throbbing behind my eyes.

"Sama—" He coughed, "Samara, what have you done?" His eyes widened as the sensation of hot liquid spread across his chest, blossoming further when I removed the blade.

"Shh. Don't speak." I silenced him with a fingertip against his lips, and climbed to my feet, stepping out of the tub.

"Wait, Samar—" He fell to another coughing fit, spraying blood droplets over his chin and chest.

"Good bye, Marcus." I ignored his cries of protest as I quietly whispered a prayer for his salvation, and then left him alone in the bathroom, closing the door behind me. Casually ignoring his weeping, I was nearly to the living room, prepared to plan an escape, when a knock echoed from the front door.

"Who is it?" I paused, hesitatingly eyeing the door. When no one answered, but only knocked again, I stepped closer to peer through the peephole.

"Police! Open up!" I'd barely gotten sight of men outside the door before it crashed open. Stumbling backwards, I fought to catch myself by grabbing a hold of a nearby shelf. Instead of stabilizing me, the shelf only crashed to the floor on top of me, contents scattering in a wide mess.

"Holy shit, would you look at that?" One of the men in blue pointed his weapon towards the peak of the pile. A small tin can I'd had since my days as a child had fallen open, releasing its contents; a handful of dismembered fingers.

"Yeah, this is the one." Two of the men began towards me, while the rest stood back, weapons poised and ready for word to shoot.

"No!" I scrambled to my feet, backing away cautiously. "You don't understand; I had to do it!"

"Excuse me, m'am, but there's no excuse for murdering people, especially not young women like some of 'em were." He slowly unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his belt, steadily moving closer.

"No; stay back!" I pointed my knife at them. "Things weren't supposed to go like this, you can't take me away!"

"M'am, please just drop your weapon, and we won't do you any harm." The closest officer, the one with the handcuffs, set his gun on the floor so to seem harmless. Coming closer, he held his hands up, cuffs dangling from his fingers.

"No!" I swung my knife in his direction; out of reflex one of the officers near the door pulled the trigger. At first I couldn't feel anything, and believed he'd given a warning shot into the ceiling, or accidentally shot one of his men, but then a strange burning feeling filled my right leg. Looking down, I could see the torrents of red soaking through my jeans, and I dropped the knife to clutch my wound.

"Harbor!" The closest officer yelled back to the one who had fired, giving him a 'You'll pay for that back at the station' kind of look, before lurching forward and cuffing my hands behind my back.

Defeated, I obediently held still while he tightened the steel against my skin, and called for a medic. The next thing I knew I was laying on a stretcher with a strange man holding a cotton pad over my wound, and two others carrying me down the stairs. Outside the building a crowd had gathered; many held signs and yelled angrily. I couldn't read their signs, and I couldn't recognize any of their faces; my vision blurred in confusion. Why are they doing this? I didn't do anything wrong; I was helping all those people.

"You're going to burn in hell!" A heavy set woman, the one I'd seen on TV just nights before, clawed past the police line and lunged for the stretcher until a handful of officers subdued her and held her back.

"What? I won't go to hell; I'll be forgiven. God will forgive me! I did good for all those people; I brought them to salvation!" I couldn't hear my own voice amongst the others surrounding me; enveloping me.

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When I awoke the following morning, I was in strange bed and handcuffed to the side. Tugging on the steel cuff, testing it, I looked around the new room. Everything was white; even I had been changed into a white gown. What is this place? Am I near to my salvation? Am I being awarded for me duties? This must be it. The white of my bandage blossomed with red; the stain spread the more I struggled to get away from it.

"No," I protested, trying to claw at the red with my one free hand. "Filth!" The red only grew, taunting me; it seemed to impersonate the flames of hell and enveloped me.

A nurse across the hall jumped, startled at the sound of Samara's screams echoing through the otherwise empty hospital. She leapt to her feet and ran across the room, prepared to inject the young woman with morphine, or something to help with the pain. But Samara wasn't in pain; the young woman was flopping around on the bed, clawing away the bandages around her thigh, and then at the open wound.

"Security!" The nurse called for help to subdue the girl, trying to keep her tearing the bullet hole to further damage by pulling away her free hand. With strength that surprised the nurse, the frail woman wrenched her down and bit into the nurse's arm. By reflex, she let go and stumbled backwards, watching Samara scratch and claw at the blood trickling down her pale thigh.

"Are you okay?" Two security guards ran into the room; one paused to check on the nurse when he noted the way she clutched her arm protectively.

"I'm fine; take care of her! Stop her from irritating the wound further!"

After little trouble the two men were able to subdue Samara, strapping her freely swinging limbs to the bed with handcuffs they'd been provided with the job, but had never before had reason to use.

Although unable to fight the red now staining the white sheets around her, Samara continued to shriek pitifully about the flames of hell, tossing her head from side to side against the pillow.

Backing away to the door, the nurse let out a high pitched squeal as she bumped into an unknown figure. Turning, she sighed in relief to see only an elder man, tugging a hat from atop his head and holding it against his chest.

"Is this young woman okay?" He narrowed his eyes, the wrinkles on his face only deepening further.

"Samara? Oh, yes." The nurse smiled sadly, looking back to the whimpering woman on the bed. "We'll have her up and better in no time." Although she didn't believe her own words, it was her duty as an employee of the hospital to promote their abilities to help people.

"Wonderful. I'm sure you will; though don't waste the resources if she _is_ a lost cause."

"Father?" The two at the door turned back to Samara, who stared at them between strands of hair plastered to her face with sweat. "Father, is that you?"

The nurse cocked her head to the side in obvious confusion, and turned to the elder man in hopes for reassurance that Samara was only hallucinating. She couldn't understand why she wouldn't want such a helpless young woman to have such a nice, old man to comfort her, but it didn't seem right to connect the delirious woman with the friendly stranger.

"Sir?" The nurse was alone at the door; down the hall she could hear the elevator doors close, and ran towards the sound. "Sir! Please, stop!" She stopped when the doors thumped shut and the wires and cranks within creaked with movement.

The nurse sighed, brushing her hand over her head and sliding off the neatly folded, white hat. It had been a long day; she wanted nothing more than to return home and to hug her own kids; to teach them to be happy, and to make them happy. Pressing her palms over her ears, she tried to block out Samara's cries, growing in volume with desperation.

"Father! I—I know that was you! You said I was dirty; but I'm so close to salvation! You said I was unworthy, but that's about to change. Father, please! I did this all for you; lead me to salvation now!" Inside the room, the woman's bowstring back loosened and she fell against the blankets, her entire body visibly calming as she whispered; "Father, take me to salvation now. I'm ready."


End file.
